


Darkest at Midnight

by Atlantic_Seaglass



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Intrigue, Twisted Science, cloak and dagger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlantic_Seaglass/pseuds/Atlantic_Seaglass
Summary: After the business with Yeti and the Great Intelligence in New York City, the US military decides they need an outfit specifically dedicated to handling threats of that variety. An officer is sent to Edinburgh to spend some time with HAVOC and learn from them. The visit, however, soon proves to be anything but straightforward.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a head canon follow-on from Times Squared, so slight spoilers for that. I've been sitting on it for a decent length of time but it does no good gathering virtual dust.
> 
> Character ownership: Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart and Anne Travers belong to the Haisman estate. Maisie Hawke is the creation of Gary Russell. William Bishop, Stephen Lindsay, Samson Ware, and Jeff Erickson are the creations of A. Allen. Everybody else is mine.

Major Gerritt Howland was not happy.

His mood was matched by the day itself, which was grey, gloomy, and brisk. This was typical of Scotland in the winter, according to his driver. The one thing lacking was snow. Scotland was preferable to upstate New York in that respect. Then again, Camp Drum was nobody's ideal duty station, especially not in winter. Yet it was still home for the 514th Airborne, and therefore home for Howland, the battalion's training and operations officer. His being here was thanks almost entirely to holding that position. 

Well. That and the near-disaster which had consumed New York City. The attack made by the Yeti creatures and the rats which dominated the city's extensive sewer system had been a daggone harsh wake-up call to the powers-that-were. Fortunately, the defence of the city was managed by the NYPD and the National Guard units responding from their armouries across the boroughs. The dawn appearance of the late-arriving 514th and both battalions of the 108th Infantry turned out to be an anti-climax. Most of the combat was over.

The cleaning-up operations took weeks. Much of the work was determinedly claimed by the local Guardsmen, who felt with justification that since _they_ had defended their city, _they_ should be the only ones mopping up afterward. Even the 108th, who were Guardsmen themselves, were considered to be unnecessary interlopers. The late arrivals were effectively consigned to security roles. There could be no denying the experience with an enemy nobody had anticipated, never mind imagined, shook a lot of senior officers' nerves, however. 

Somebody with too many stars on his shoulders decided that the US Army needed a specialised unit to respond to this sort of danger and toward that end, it was arranged to send an “acceptable” officer to their British allies on a learning mission. So it was that Howland was here. He did not want to be here. This had been sold to him as a “train the trainer” trip and it wasn't until an unpleasant colonel named Castillo appeared in Howland's office that the whole business began to sour. That conversation was one he wished he could scour from his memory.

Then had come the telegram. _The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his regret..._ He'd been on the verge of refusing to travel, not wanting to be away from home in the circumstances, but his wife had told him it changed nothing if he was home or not. There was nothing either of them could do but be under each other's feet, until further news was received. Missing in action was better than killed in action. There was hope their daughter and the others with her would be found alive. 

No, he didn't want to be here but his wife was correct. It was wiser to keep himself gainfully employed. Even so, he looked forward to the end of this mission. Both of these missions. He felt dirty to be serving two purposes, one perfectly honest and one decidedly less so. The approaching end of the drive didn't go far to boosting his spirits, however. Only the completion of his time here could do that. Assuming he'd get to that point without sacrificing either his sense of honour as an officer or pride as a soldier. Or without letting the clawing agony of uncertainty whether Amanda was alive or not get the better of him. Time alone would tell. 

He shifted in the seat and tried to ignore the leaden weight of the folded paper orders in the right breast pocket of his Class A jacket. One was the page he'd give to whoever received him as the official endorsement of his presence. The other was his “real” set of orders, deliberately cut after the first set so those would be superseded, which only Howland would know. But he did himself no favours in dwelling on them. There was little he could do now to change the mission. In fact it had never been in his power to change that. Particularly not now that he was in-country and no more than a few minutes from his destination. 

Edinburgh was a handsome city, though. Were he in a better frame of mind, he might have appreciated the cityscape more. Instead, he had eyes only for the towering edifice of a castle that dominated the skyline ahead.

'That'll be her,' said his driver with no small pride. 'The auld Castle herself. A right beauty, she is. You'll no' find a finer lass this side o' the Highlands.'

'I don't doubt it,' Howland replied. It took him a moment to parse the corporal's broad Scots dialect. He supposed he must sound strange in return, being from Pennsylvania Dutch country with the corresponding accent. 'It certainly makes a good landmark.'

'Oh aye, tha' she does.' The corporal guided the Land Rover around a corner. 'The barracks isnae much t'look at, mind. Oh it's comf'table enough but it'd no' win awards for appearance.'

'Are the barracks for enlisted only?'

'D'you mean rankers? Nae, there's space for officers too. Mister Bishop's seen to it you've a room put by. I'll show you to it inna mo'. Fit like, Lampy?' This last was addressed to the trooper – correction, a corporal – on duty at the gate, who saluted before he approached the driver's door.

'Good afternoon, sir. Identification please. Is it just you two?'

'Aye, just twa.'

The sentry handed back Howland's ID, then glanced into the back of the Land Rover. He stamped his heels together and smoothly saluted. 'Off you go then.'

Howland's driver chuckled as he pulled away. 'That's auld Lampy. He's no' bad, for a scaley. There it is, sir. New Barracks in a' its glory.'

The corporal wasn't wrong in his previous assessment of the barracks block. Even in the afternoon gloom, the building had a noticeably joyless look about it. The stones it was built from seemed impervious to colour, having only a smattering of variations in shades of brown. On brighter days, Howland wondered if the place merely soaked sunlight in, as might a black hole. Then he grinned slightly to himself. Who was he to judge? He lived in post housing himself, and the tiny bungalow allotted to him was a grim brick construction with an unwelcoming little front porch.

'It's not so bad,' he replied, feeling some of his unease calming. A little.

'Aye, there's worse piles 'round the mob.' His driver set the parking brake and all but bounded out of the truck. Howland took it more steadily, but his knees were feeling just a trifle stiff at having been still for so long. The drive from Turnhouse hadn't been that long but the flight had been. Comfort had not been a consideration in the development of the C-141s. Daggone Air Force, he thought dutifully. The corporal had retrieved his A bag for him and waited until he'd unfolded himself from the Land Rover before saying 'C'mon this way, sir. The adj put you on the ground floor wi' the other officers. You'll ha' a few minutes for settlin' in, then the brigadier'll come up himself to collect you.'

With that, the corporal set off at a brisk march. There were a few men lounging around outside the door but they vanished as if by magic on spotting Howland. It was all he could do not to grin. The reaction by junior enlisted to the presence of officers was universal. His guide led the way down a dreary hallway to a door roughly a third of the way along, then he produced a key. The room behind the door was a decent enough space, Howland decided as he gave it an initial look. Certainly it had all the necessaries – a bed, a desk, a chair, and a foot locker – with the added luxuries of an ironing board hanging on the wall with an iron on a shelf above it and a small cushioned armchair in the corner. It was better than the transient officers' quarters at Fort Drum already. 

The corporal set his A bag down just inside the door, stamped his heels together, then departed. Howland pocketed the key he'd been given. Since he was to meet the commander shortly, he saw little point in actually unpacking right then. Settling in therefore took no more than ten minutes, or just long enough for him to stow his A bag beside the desk and depart the room, taking care to lock the door behind him. Making a quick recon of the floor was a more important use of time. The communal latrine was down the hall a few doors, with a utilitarian shower block included. It was nothing at all to write home about, but what purpose-built Army accommodation was?

There was no sign of any of the troopers who'd been loitering outside the barracks door when Howland reemerged. This didn't surprise him. Of course, the approach of a flawlessly neat and trim general officer no doubt played a role in the continued absence of rank and file as well. Howland straightened to attention and saluted. Introductions wouldn't be required but overlooking the basics of courtesies was unforgivable. 

'Good afternoon, sir.'

'Welcome to Edinburgh, Major,' Lethbridge-Stewart greeted, returning the salute. He promptly offered his hand next. 'Congratulations on your promotion. I believe it well deserved.'

'Thank you, sir.' It was good to be positively remembered, though he supposed there was little chance of any of them forgetting the circumstances of their last meeting, amid the ruin and chaos gripping lower Manhattan. Howland fell naturally into step beside the brigadier, keeping easy stride at his left shoulder. 'I expect the mood will be somewhat calmer for this visit.'

'Beyond doubt.' There was the merest hint of amusement in the brigadier's voice. 'Keep close. Most of the regular personnel here know we come and go as we like, but we still prefer to keep a low profile. It's easier once we're belowground. You'll need to carry this at all times while you're here.'

'Of course.' Howland took the visitor's pass and clipped it to the left breast pocket flap of his jacket.

Silence then took the place of conversation. Lethbridge-Stewart led the way back into the barracks block and thence to a room on the ground floor in which a cleverly disguised elevator was housed. They rode this down some distance. When they stepped off it, it was into a decidedly modern hallway that led to a desk behind which two sailors in dress uniforms sat. The one with a petty officer's chevrons stood up to reveal a perfectly blancoed webbing belt and sidearm holster around his waist.

'Passes, please,' he said.

This was a request directed mostly at Howland. He handed his pass over. Security so far was good. It was important to make sure movement in sensitive areas was strictly controlled.

'Thank you.' The petty officer handed back his pass. His colleague had, Howland noted, entered their arrival details into a book. Yes, definitely good security.

'This way, Major,' said Lethbridge-Stewart.

They set off down the hallway to the right of the CQ desk. There were a number of doors on either side, through which uniformed personnel came and went. Nobody seemed to take any notice of the brigadier, but most looked twice at Howland. This was only natural; with his darker green Class As and spit-shined jump boots, he stood out like a sore thumb. He deliberately ignored them. Presently, the brigadier halted at an open doorway that led to a conference room. The room featured a long rectangular wooden table. Two soldiers in dress uniforms sat at it, papers spread out on the table before them. 

'As you were,' said Lethbridge-Stewart. 'May I introduce Lieutenant Bishop and Regimental Sergeant Major Ware? Gentlemen, Major Howland.'

Howland stepped forward to reach across the table to shake each man's hand. 'Pleasure,' he said. 

'The major,' Lethbridge-Stewart continued after everyone was seated, 'was part of the force which helped deal with the Yeti incident in New York City.'

The fleeting grimace on Bishop's face told Howland that the lieutenant was quite familiar with the details of that mess. He opted not to comment directly, however, instead saying, 'We'll do our best to make sure your visit will be a quiet one, sir.'

'Without a doubt,' Howland agreed. _If only it could be_. He'd have to cough up the innocent set of orders for Lethbridge-Stewart at some point, to formally make himself present here, he knew. That act would also cement his own complicity in this damnable game. The orders he'd present would be invalid – but the brigadier wouldn't know that. This was not soldiering in any respect and Howland hated being part of it, but there was nothing he could do. Not with both the promise of confirmation of his S3 slot and the threat of UCMJ action hanging over him.

'The purpose of this little gathering is to form a loose plan for the major's stay with us. I, unfortunately, am here only until this evening. Previous engagements in London require my attendance there. Lieutenant Bishop will be responsible for operations in my absence. You'll be in perfectly good hands, Major.'

'I have no doubt, sir.'

Lieutenant Bishop was grinning. 'I think you'll like what we've got planned, sir.'

~

The minuscule blobs visible on the specimen slide were clearly the same as those he'd viewed a few minutes ago. The only trouble was that he did not see the difference in composition that he'd hoped to, but he supposed he could hardly expect success so soon. Still, this was encouraging. He had at least managed to identify _which_ cells needed his attention. Now to take the next step and introduce the components which would alter those cells' make up. Stifling a yawn, barely, Patrick Beaton sat back in his padded chair and rolled his neck to release the tension in his C-spine. He couldn't recall precisely how long he'd been sitting here, hunched over his microscope. There was very little natural light down here in his basement laboratory. It had been hours, certainly. His eyelids were like sandpaper and his stomach was past the point of rumbling and instead felt pinched and painful. Sleep and a meal were necessary fairly soon. Or at least a meal. Sleep must wait until he had achieved a meaningful result.

Behind him came a muffled chittering. He smiled. 'Patience, my darlings,' he said, easing himself out of the chair. The microscope was powered off with a click, then he moved stiffly toward the large, covered wooden cage that housed his beloved research assistants. One of them peered at him when he lifted part of the stark green mortuary sheet. He offered a crooked finger to it and was allowed to gently stroke the top of its head. As far as bats went, Beaton reckoned that _Diaemus youngi_ was the most adaptable. Certainly it had done the best after being relocated from Honduras. It was to accommodate them that the basement was so warm and humid. Which reminded him... he let the sheet fall back into place and returned to his workbench, where he made short work of putting the specimen slides safely back into the cooling cabinet beside the workbench. There. Better.

'I must also fetch you dinner,' he told the occupants of the cage. He'd fed them some hours ago but they'd need feeding again soon. It was a good thing the house overlooked Queen Street Gardens. Pigeons were therefore easy to acquire. What he also had to do, he realised, was find yet another subject from whom to draw samples. The last one, whose cells he had just been studying, had proved not particularly open to the whole idea of being a test subject at all. No loss, however. Beaton hadn't cared much for the man's surly attitude. Disposing of his services had thus been satisfying. 

Still. None of his work could proceed until he found a new volunteer. He closed the cooling cabinet and turned for the stairs leading up to the kitchen. His assistants preferred fresh, living food. Three pigeons per meal usually sufficed. What he should perhaps do is begin keeping them here to spare the necessity – and frequently, the difficulty – of catching them in public. It was already necessary to visit other parks around the city to avoid arousing suspicion. The absence of pigeons from a single area would surely give rise to questions, after all.

On reaching the kitchen, Beaton felt a pang of dismay. There was still daylight streaming in the windows. Damn. Pigeon-catching couldn't wait, though. Neither could finding a fresh test subject. And, possibly, another mind and pair of hands to assist him properly. He couldn't help thinking that his persistent failures was the result of his tackling such an enormous job unaided. But who might be up to such a task? His circle of professional acquaintances had shrunk drastically since the university had given him the axe but he still knew a good many people whose help need only be asked for. Who amongst that number would he ask first? He pulled some slightly-mouldy cheese from the refrigerator and mashed it between two stale pieces of bread. Who indeed...


	2. Chapter 2

  
If that was how all of his TDYs went in future, Major Howland decided he might like the idea of them more. After providing a guided tour of Dolerite Base and making a dozen or more introductions, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart had turned him over to the XO, Lieutenant Bishop, and departed. Leaving the post for a place Bishop called “the best eatery in Edinburgh” came soon after, with the soldiers naturally changing their uniforms for civilian attire first. Their reasons for doing so no doubt varied. Howland did not know the general social mood in Scotland but he was in no hurry to be spat on here when that happened often enough back home. Nor was he minded to ask the “why” either. It was enough that they were all as inconspicuous as they could manage.

It was a small enough group that packed into Bishop's car for the journey. Sergeant Major Ware and the medical officer, Captain Lindsay, shared the backseat, while Howland – as much due to his rank as his status as a guest – was permitted the front passenger seat. Within a half-hour they were more comfortably seated in a small café enjoying steaming hot coffee and some tasty sausage rolls. Howland had decided to be daring and order a Scotch pie, and he wasn't disappointed. This was vastly preferable to Army chow. Not, he had to admit, that it took all that much to be better than Army chow.

'Save room for afters,' Bishop told him cheerfully. 'There's a place not far from here that the Redford Barracks lads like.'

'What sort of place?'

'It's called The Crooked Hen. Not the biggest place as far as pubs go but like Rollo's here, it's difficult to top.' Ware grinned, perhaps ruefully. 'Some of the lads like going there a bit too much.'

Howland considered that. A bar – or pub – favoured by enlisted men was not likely to be overly welcoming to officers, even officers out of uniform. 'Is there some place where we'd be less likely to spoil the party?'

'As officers, you mean? Not if we keep ourselves to ourselves. Unless of course there's obvious trouble, that is.' Bishop shook his head at Captain Lindsay, who had fished his billfold out of his jacket. 'Brig left me in charge, which means I pay our way.'

'Rank having its privileges, eh?'

Lindsay chuckled, re-stowing his billfold. 'We could be unkind and make you pay instead, you being the most senior of all of us.'

'That'd be no hardship for me,' Howland replied with a grin. 

'Next time. Excuse me a moment, gents.' Bishop rose to make his way to the shop counter, there to pay their bill. In his absence, the other three permitted conversation to lapse as they cleaned up the last pieces of their respective meals. Already there was a feeling of camaraderie shared that helped soothe the cavernous ache within him. It left Howland feeling guilty. He had never been a fan of dishonest dealings. It was worse now. He was here as a trusted guest. The paratrooper pushed these thoughts from his head. The best thing he could do for now was enjoy the mood of honest fellowship. It was a bridge he'd be obliged to burn later but not tonight.

'Right, let's be off. Anne knows we're going there after so she should be able to join us.'

That was right. It embarrassed Howland a little to remember that Dolerite's chief scientist was supposed to have come to dinner with them. His usual awareness of details had slipped – but he supposed the pleasant nature of the company despite her absence had crowded that fact from his mind. Obviously, he chided himself, he must not let the charade he was living get in the way of being sharp and focussed. He slipped into his jacket and followed behind Captain Lindsay as the group filed out. They trailed after the sergeant major like obedient ducklings down to Bishop's car, where they then packed themselves in for the short drive to their chosen pub.

He supposed, on arrival, that he shouldn't be surprised by the pub's dim interior or its somewhat gloomy décor. It might be any bar in Watertown, really. He liked it on sight. Then his eyes fell on the piano nestled against the far wall and in a heartbeat he forgot the ribbon of conversation winding its way around the group. A piano. There was no believing his luck. His fingers curled inward into fists for only a second, then relaxed. He had to remember that he was a guest here. What were they talking about again?

'What's your pleasure, gents?' Captain Lindsay was at the bar, billfold in hand, looking expectantly at them.

'There any Rheingold?' It was a shot in the dark, he knew, but one worth taking. The barman's headshake confirmed that his figurative shot was wide. 'Surprise me, then.'

Lindsay and the sergeant major exchanged glances. The MO grinned. 'A round of Special Bitter, please. You'll like it, I think. But if not, there's plenty of alternatives on offer.'

The barman was setting four glasses out before Lindsay finished speaking. 'I'll have t'ese round in a mo',' he told the group. 

That was all the encouragement Bishop needed. He shepherded the others toward a table not far from the piano Howland had been eyeing. His fingers ached to touch the ivory keys. Maybe, after the first round, he'd take a seat on that well-worn bench and see how in tune the instrument was. He hadn't played since he'd gotten the news about Amanda. Could he bring himself to actually play here? If so, what would he play? He considered his extensive mental sheet-book. Something light and fun, probably. It wouldn't do to risk offence by trying to be folksy or the like. Maybe some Benny Goodman, just for a hoot...

'You with us, Major?'

'Yes, sorry.' The snap back to reality was made almost seamless. He'd gotten a lot of practise with that skill since joining the 514th. Sadly. 'Mostly, anyway.'

Lindsay grinned and slid a pint glass toward him. 'Drink up, then. A good bitter helps boost the powers of memory.'

'Is that proven medical fact?'

'Beyond question. I have tested it many times, on myself and others.'

If he'd had any doubts even at this early stage about Lindsay's worth as a medical officer, that cheerful remark dispelled them entirely. Here was a guy who was so comfortable in his role that he had no reservations about making light of it. Howland lifted his glass and sampled its contents. His first immediate impression was that the beer was too malty for his liking, but the taste mellowed a little as he swallowed. Not the best he'd ever tried but far from the worst, either. 

'So, tell us. What mortal sin did you commit to get you sent here on a learning visit?' The question came from the sergeant major, who seemed untroubled by the forwardness of his question – but sergeants major had a way of not giving a damn about being forward when the mood took them, as Howland well knew. 

'Truth?'

'Ideally,' said Bishop. 'Unless you've got a better story than the truth.'

Well in that case. 'Ah, I see. Well. It might have happened that I had a hand in redecorating the colonel's office so the better part of the furniture was arranged on the ceiling. Our great misfortune is that said colonel was never issued a sense of humour.'

That was as safely far from the truth as he could think of on the spot but the guffaws around the table suggested the effort wasn't wasted. Howland smirked into his beer. This was a good bunch. He could have done a damned sight worse in getting sent here. Now, how to gracefully sneak himself over to that piano bench... or not, perhaps. Bishop sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes fixed on the door. Someone had come in who caught his full attention.

'Anne!' The lieutenant was on his feet, followed by less than half a heartbeat by his companions. 'I'm glad you found us. Would you like a drink?'

'Coffee, please. I need something strong that isn't wine.'

'Of course.' Bishop saw to it she was seated first, then was off to the bar. 

It fell to Lindsay to make the introductions. He remained standing, indicated Howland, and with the slightest of bows, said, 'Doctor Travers, permit me to present Major Howland, who has temporarily joined us on a learning visit. Major, the indispensable Doctor Anne Travers.'

Howland accepted the offered hand. 'Gerritt.'

'Anne. It's a pleasure to meet you.' 

'Likewise.' He hadn't missed Lindsay's description of Doctor Travers. Nor had he missed the omission of just what she did at Dolerite – because there was unquestionably a Dolerite connection. Evidently, this was information being left to him to discover for himself. 'You're clearly not one of the uniformed bunch.' 

She offered him a smile. 'Far from it. I'm the head of the Scientific Department. Thank you, Bill.'

'A pleasure.' Bishop resumed his seat, having delivered the asked-for coffee. 'I take it we're all acquainted now?'

'We are. Not all introductions were managed earlier.'

'Good, good. We hope to have the major spend some time in the labs with you, getting a handle on our scientific operations. If that's agreeable?'

'Hm? Yes. Sorry, the coffee hasn't taken effect yet. Yes, that's fine.'

Bishop was not the only one to direct a slight frown in Doctor Travers' direction. 'Are you all right, Anne?'

'Yes, fine.' She curled her hands around the ceramic coffee mug. 'Actually no. I ran into a colleague earlier, on my way to join you for dinner.'

'Not a pleasant meeting, I take it?'

She shook her head. She took a moment or two to gather her thoughts. 'Not particularly, in honesty, but we're hardly here to listen to me moan. I notice you eyeing up the piano, Major. Do you play?'

He couldn't entirely suppress a grin. 'I do. Should I play?' 

There were encouraging nods and grins from the others around the table. Well. He should have expected as much, particularly given his inability to keep his eyes off that beautiful bar piano. Well. 'Beautiful' was stretching the point. It was very much an instrument that had endured more than its share of use and abuse over the years. But it was still a piano and his fingers itched to touch its chipped, yellowed ivory keys. 

'I'd think that's a yes,' Captain Lindsay observed, a broad smile on his face. 'On the condition you don't play anything Classical.'

'Oh? Not a fan of Mozart, Stephen?'

'Far from it! Remember I carried a rifle before I ever touched a stethoscope. Give us something lively, Major.'

Lively, was it? There was no voiced disapproval to that. Okay then. Howland took a good final swallow of his beer before rising to make his way to the piano bench. There was undoubtedly sheet music stashed under the worn cushioned seat but he didn't need any. He'd always had a good memory for songs. He already knew what he wanted to play, in fact. Just as long as the piano was in tune... he tapped out the first few notes of "Up On The Roof" and nodded. It wasn't _perfect_ but it'd do. Howland couldn't resist giving the keys a light, gentle stroke. He'd all but forgotten where he was and that he had an audience. All that mattered was the piano at which he sat. The piano he was about to make sing. Lively, was it? He decided he needed lively. So lively it'd be.

~

Close. He'd been close. So close. But she'd refused. She'd said she had too much work of her own to help even the smallest bit with his. As if anything she was doing could be more important! Patrick Beaton strode briskly down the footpath that bisected The Meadows, his head a swirling, tilting storm. How _dare_ she turn him down! Him! Who was more destined for greatness than he? It was tremendously galling that one so wonderfully bright as Anne Travers should be unable to recognise a similar genius. Damn and curse her for her blindness!

Beaton shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his stained old dark blue greatcoat. He'd prove her wrong for rejecting him. He'd prove them all wrong. Everyone who had doubted him, who had scoffed at his ideas, who had ever said there was nothing to be gained by the work he did. They would all come to know who was right in the end. He just needed the right sort of help – and the right sort of test subjects. Which meant he had to get straight back to work. It did him no good to ruminate on Anne Travers' foolish refusal. He'd come this far on his own anyway.

Get on with things. Yes. That's what he would do. What he _had_ to do. Come on, man. Beaton breathed out, his breath misting thickly, and turned to shape his course for the Old Town. At this time of the evening, he knew there would be an abundance of potential test subjects. The winter chill wouldn't keep too many people indoors. He'd find the right specimen there tonight. He was sure of it. His left hand curled around the syringe he always carried with him. Just one likely prospect was all he needed. 

The crowds grew denser the closer he got to Grassmarket. Many were tourists, here no doubt to gawp and stare at the Castle. That horrid towering monstrosity had always disgusted Beaton. There was no elegance at all in that building. It was fitting, then, that it should belong to the Army. He didn't favour the Castle with even a passing glance as he strode by beneath it. He was in the Old Town now, though. The time had come to hunt. Beaton turned up the collar of his greatcoat and was distantly glad he had never turned it in. It was too valuable a piece of clothing, especially in the depths of a Scottish winter.

It being winter meant the absence of appropriate clothing stood out. Beaton soon spotted a short, dock bollard of a man wearing only a woolly pully. Something about that fellow drew Beaton in his direction. He couldn't articulate even to himself what that something was. He simply knew in an instant that here was as likely a specimen as he'd find that night. Falling in behind the man was easy work. It was evident the fellow was well into his cups. There was just enough sway in his step to suggest inebriation. As if his carrying his jacket wasn't sign enough that he was not in full possession of sobriety.

Beaton followed the man past the City Chambers before deciding the time to strike had come. This would all be for naught if he let his quarry get into any of the pubs lining the High Street. He closed the distance steadily, taking care to keep his stride at a swift walk. It must appear only as if he was moving with the crowd. Undue haste would attract attention. Closer. Closer. The man ahead of him paused outside a pub from which some discordant screeching was blasting. If that was music, Beaton was a donkey. He did not stop or slow. He couldn't. Not now. He was committed. The man might spot him bearing rapidly down on him and start to square up, but that was a chance he needed to take. The syringe was in his hand, the cap nudged off with his thumb. It was positioned in his loose grip like a bayonet ready to be driven deep into an enemy's ribs. It needed only a short, sharp forward jab to strike home.

The best spot to sink the needle in was the back, just above the belt. Beaton slowed just enough to ensure he could not miss. The poor sot never saw him coming. The needle went in beautifully, its employment covered by Beaton's abruptly flinging his right arm around the man's shoulders. 'Hey, steady now, mucker! Reckon you've had plenty enough for the night, eh?' By God this bastard was heavy! The syringe's contents were already taking effect. Beaton slipped it safely back into his pocket as he struggled to keep the man from sinking to the pavement. Passers-by hardly looked at them. The incidence of drunkards needing to be carried off home was far too common for notice. Such indifference was what Beaton counted on.

'Right, matey, let's get you home, eh? C'mon then, can't you walk?' Beaton kept up the one-sided conversation for appearance's sake, even as he waved an arm in the direction of the street. A taxi cab was the only way to get this legless lump back to Heriot Row. He might need the cabbie's help to get the bastard to the door, but from there... well. Beaton grinned, very briefly, as a cab swung into the kerb. Once that front door closed, this fellow would be entirely lost to the outside world. But who would miss a drunk like this, anyway?


	3. Chapter 3

  
There were perhaps half a dozen officers – correction, there was one NCO with an MP brassard on his arm – seated around the same table at which Howland had been formally 'read in' the day before. Lieutenant Bishop sat prominently at the head of the table, with Sergeant Major Ware at his right hand and Captain Lindsay at his left. He'd been introduced to most of these men yesterday, but first meetings were seldom enough to imprint faces and names into his memory. That would be something hopefully remedied in full by the time he left here. Even if, he added ruefully, he didn't leave here on the best of terms. 

He ignored the speculative glances turned his way and headed toward the sergeant major, heeding the slight nod at the empty chair beside him. It helped that having the approval of the most senior enlisted man on post was a universal advantage, even as an officer. Or perhaps _especially_ as an officer. Howland set his service cap down onto the table before taking a seat. Alone of the men around the table, he had brought no folders or notes, or indeed any material at all. But that was only to be expected, he supposed. He was not in charge of anything here and this was the daily morning command briefing.

Having nothing to contribute in terms of reports did not mean he was unprepared, however. He produced a small notebook and a pen from his jacket breast pocket and laid the two items beside his service cap. Now he was ready. So too was Lieutenant Bishop, it seemed. The XO glanced at his watch, then at the assembled command team. There was still one seat unfilled, Howland realised. They were waiting on one last man. He tried not to grin. There was always somebody. 

Almost on cue, the drumming of hurried footsteps approached the open door. A red-faced young shavetail lieutenant barging through the doorway clutching an untidy armful of papers. His dark blue service cap was still on his head. He had clearly come straight in from somewhere aboveground. Poor boy – Howland turned his gaze away. The newcomer was just that. A boy. He hardly looked old enough to shave. Nobody spoke as the youngster scrambled to take his seat in embarrassed silence. He deserved credit for recognising the wisdom in refraining from profuse apologies for his tardiness. Would that the 514th's S1, Captain Dilllard, possessed that same wisdom every time he was late for officers' call.

'Apologies, sir,' the youngster said presently, after he had settled both his papers and his cap onto the table. 'I was... unexpectedly delayed.'

'Again,' somebody muttered.

Bishop glared down the table. 'That'll do, Captain. I hardly have to remind you that we have a guest present.'

'Apologies,' said the grump, whose name escaped Howland's immediate recall. Whoever he was, he hardly sounded sorry.

The expressed contrition seemed to be enough for Bishop, though. The XO simply nodded and moved on. 'The door, please, Lieutenant Smart.' He waited until the door had been pushed shut by a round-faced lieutenant whose place at the table was marked by a thick file folder and a green beret. 'Let's get started. Sergeant Maddox won't be joining us today so her report will be given by the RSM. We'll begin there. Mister Ware?'

The sergeant major glanced only once at the notepad in front of him. 'Not much has changed from last report with regard to the intermittent Morse-code-like signals detected in the upper limits of the stratosphere. A scan of all frequencies known to be in use by friendly and unfriendly countries turned up nothing that matched either the location or the manner of the signals. None of our aircraft were in operation at that altitude, at the times of these signals, either. The signals have remained unpredictable in their transmission and the comms room continue to record them when they are active, so to speak. Sergeant Maddox believes it could be as innocent as metallic debris from a satellite launch or as sinister as some manner of recce device sending reports and information to a potential invader. Arrangements are being made to reorient one of our satellites to better monitor the stratospheric range at which the signals have been detected. A specially-modified Nimrod MR-One will also shortly be making regular patrols at the limit of its altitude in hopes of 'getting lucky'. Any further updates will of course be provided as they develop.'

Hm. Howland set down his pen and considered this report. It was obvious just from that summary that there was a hell of a lot in the way of interservice cooperation here. He envied the Support Group that luxury; anything to do with off-the-ground trouble was jealously claimed by the Air Force and good luck getting them to share even the time of day.

'That seems more like a whole lot of "nothing",' the grump observed.

'I'd like to know how you figure that,' challenged the green beret lieutenant. 'It sounds to me like considerable measures are being taken to determine whether or not these signals represent a material threat.'

'A threat by whom? The Russians? They're seldom so absurd in their approach. I find this whole affair singularly irrelevant, in point of fact.'

'That'll do, Captain,' Bishop said crisply. He didn't sound annoyed but he surely had to be. 'Are there any _relevant_ questions or remarks? No? Very well. Captain Stamper. Your report, sir.'

Stamper was the grump, then. Right. Howland picked up his pen again but the bad-tempered captain's report was less interesting than the sergeant major's. It related chiefly to matters of supply, from ammunition and weapons inventory to management of the post's vehicles to distribution of uniforms, gear, and, perhaps uniquely to the Support Group, identity cards and passes for Dolerite Base. The bulk of Stamper's report dealt with the overdue delivery of four new Land Rovers and the expected inclusion of parts to repair one of the five-ton trucks allotted to the Support Group's First Battalion, based in Stirling. It was a report which had value in terms of offering a glimpse into the Support Group's logistics system but not much else.

No one had questions for Stamper. Whether this was genuinely because there were no questions or because nobody wanted to prolong the captain's report was impossible to judge. Bishop moved things along to the green beret lieutenant, a military intelligence officer ironically named Smart, who opened his massive folder with the air of a man keen to get started. His report proved lengthy but deservedly so. He covered an ongoing investigation into some sort of graveyard violation happening in a place called St Mary's, which involved the disappearance of human remains for unknown purposes. Two of Smart's troopers were on the ground looking into it. He moved on to summarise several other cases of mysterious and possibly alien doings, offering a likely threat assessment for each. Finally, he described a recent incident in a place called the Forest of Dean that involved a platoon from the First Battalion's C Company. His narration was crisp and precise. He was clearly on-point despite his age; Howland pegged him as being barely past his mid-twenties. Shame there was no way to poach the kid for the 514th.

Reports on their respective departments came next from Captain Lindsay, who updated the group on a recent inspection of the headquarters battalion's barracks and a handful of cases in the two operational battalions of what he termed "combat stress" without giving any personal information out, and from the military police staff NCO, whose name was Chambers and who offered a report on the state of Dolerite's apparently newly-updated security protocols. Howland's notebook was filling up quick, though he knew he'd have to destroy the page with security details on it before leaving the room. Questions had been asked of Captain Lindsay, who was determinedly circumspect about the details of the soldiers suffering from combat stress despite attempts by the sergeant major to draw him out. Medical confidentiality was sacrosanct. As it should be. 

It was now the turn of the schoolboy latecomer. Bishop addressed him as Lieutenant Gilchrist. The poor lad had at least composed himself in the hour or so since his hasty arrival. He didn't consult any of his papers before speaking, which was to his credit. 'Foremost, sir, I am obliged to report the absence of Two-Eight-Zero-Four-Three-Two-Two Corporal Burnham from morning parade. He was last seen leaving Castle grounds on an evening pass at eighteen-thirty on the mark. I have yet to make the usual telephone enquiry to Gayfield Square. Secondmost, the – ' 

'Pardon the interruption,' said Captain Lindsay, 'but why was he granted an evening pass? I seem to recall having recommended against that, in view of Corporal Burnham's state of fitness.'

Gilchrist coloured. 'Er, well, I had a word with the corporal and he said he was quite in order.'

'Did he not present my note to you?'

'Er, no. There was a note, sir?'

'There certainly was a bloody note!'

'Lieutenant Gilchrist,' Bishop cut in. 'I think it's within reason that the corporal will be found either in his barrack room in due course, or in temporary custody at Gayfield Square. He is a matter to be addressed after this briefing. Move on, please.'

The youngster swallowed with an obvious effort and took a moment to collect himself. 'Yes, sir. Er, right. Secondmost, the plans for the renovation of the canteen have been drawn up, here.' He stood and unrolled a stiff tube of paper onto the table. A neatly-drawn floor plan dominated the main paper and there were several smaller sheets with detail drawings of a serving area, a wide view of the dining space, and one or two of the kitchen itself. The artwork was neat and precise, with particular attention paid to shading and dimensions so the drawings had considerable depth. Howland was impressed. The boyish lieutenant went on to describe the drawings, laying out their purpose, the estimation of how long the project would take – a quite precise "thirty-six days" – and the plan to provide alternative facilities while the canteen was unusable. There were questions despite his thoroughness, which the lieutenant studiously recorded in a notebook before answering. 

Gilchrist's report wrapped up the officers' call. The group broke up at Bishop's dismissal, with the grump Stamper being the first out the door. Howland remained sitting. He was intrigued by the apparent case of a missing corporal and wanted to know more. Such cases were handled a certain way in the US Army and he was reasonably familiar with that certain way. How similar or different was the British Army's method of dealing with these things? He was here to learn, after all; despite the underhanded nature of his orders, he was determined to avoid coming away from this visit feeling too much like a dishonest swine.

'So. Corporal Burhnam.' Bishop had turned to a fresh page in his notepad. 'Tell us the exact details of the evening pass you granted him.'

'It was a five-hour pass only, sir. He was entirely at his liberty from eighteen-thirty until twenty-three-thirty. His name was on the pass list kept at the gate. Sergeant McManus was in charge of the gate detail last night. He was informed and instructed to keep an eye out, to note Corporal Burnham's exact time of return. I was not aware that he failed to return until morning parade today when the detachment roll was called.'

'Did you know the corporal was on a medical restriction?'

'I did not, sir.'

'We don't need to point fingers,' Bishop said. 'We'll do better to relocate to my office. I obviously have a telephone. You can ring up the Gayfield Square station from there.'

'Would it be okay to tag along, El-tee? I'm kinda curious about this corporal.'

'You're here to be shown our operations, sir. Personnel matters are part of that.' Bishop grinned, ruefully. 'This'll probably be boring as hell for you, though.'

Howland flipped his notebook closed, then stood up. Boring as hell, eh? 'I doubt it. Personnel matters in the Airborne are seldom boring. I'm sure they're even less so here.'

Captain Lindsay shook his head. 'On that point, Major, you are far more right than you know.'

~

'This is Corporal Burnham's room, sir,' said Gilchrist's freckled young sergeant, coming to a stop outside a slightly-dented wooden door on the second floor of the barracks block. 'He oughta have a roommate but hasn't, since Corporal Feaney, ehm, left us.'

It was an hour after the command briefing. Half of that hour had been spent in Bishop's office while Gilchrist called around to the city's police stations in turn, trying unsuccessfully to track down the missing Corporal Burnham. The process so far was not materially different from the one Howland typically saw used back home. Watertown was familiar enough with soldiers that it was often the police calling to inform commanders that one or more of their troopers was in the drunk tank. But the Support Group was a specialised unit, so contact invariably began on their part. 

Young Gilchrist stood just behind his sergeant, with Howland and Bishop a foot or two away down the otherwise-deserted hall. The handful of troopers who'd been going about their usual business – doing laundry, cleaning the latrine, or simply visiting each other's rooms – vanished more swiftly than did roaches from sudden exposure to light. It was universal behaviour for lower enlisted. 

'Open the door, Sergeant.'

'Yes sir.' The sergeant turned the key and pushed the door open. This duty done, he stepped to the side so the three officers could see into the room unimpeded. Gilchrist entered first. This was his right, as Burnham's immediate superior. Bishop went in next. Howland stayed where he was in the hall, aware that he was outside the chain of command and so had no business being directly involved. Even so, he could see into the room. Whatever else this corporal might be, he was no slob. His room was perfectly dress right dress. Howland could count on one hand the number of paratroopers in his own battalion who kept their barracks rooms so clean and orderly. 

'It's obvious he hasn't been here,' Bishop said. 'Is it known if he has digs anywhere in town?'

'No sir. This is his only lodging.'

The XO turned in a slow circle in the middle of the room, taking everything in. 'Okay. So he isn't in custody anywhere and he isn't here. Let's get back. I want you to call around the hospitals, Lieutenant. It might be that he's in an A&E somewhere. If not, there isn't much we can do. I don't like leaving a man missing but we can't go tearing the city apart looking for him, either.'

'Understood, sir. Secure the room, Sergeant.'

The officers filed out and Gilchrist's sergeant pulled the door shut behind them. That, for now, was that. Howland waited at Bishop's elbow while the two engineers departed. There was a frown on the XO's face. His thoughts weren't all that difficult to guess but Howland didn't intrude on them. Instead, he fell in at Bishop's right elbow and followed him to the stairs. 

Presently, the lieutenant sighed. 'This puts a spanner in the works, sir. I'd wanted to leave for Stirling this afternoon. B Company is going out to Earlsburn Camp for their week in the field and I'd reckoned that's something worth showing off.'

'That's the soldier's lot,' Howland observed.

'Yeah. Anyway, that plan's off. I hope Toby has luck with the hospitals. If not, I really don't know what we can do.'

Howland fitted his cap onto his head just before following Bishop back to the elevator. 'If he was one of mine, he'd have twenty-four hours to show up again before I did a DA Form Five-Five-Three on him. He'd be considered AWOL once I put that form onto the battalion commander's desk. From there, it'd be out of my hands. He'd also have only thirty days being AWOL before he became a deserter. Whenever and wherever he resurfaced after that point, there wouldn't be much I, as his officer, could do for him outside of possible court-martial.'

At that, Bishop sighed. 'It's not like Burnham to up and disappear, but who can ever know with a guy who drinks as much as he does? He likes his pints and that isn't a secret around here. It could well be that's caught him up. But there's nothing we can do until Toby reports back later. Damn it. Well. Come on, sir. I want to solve the mystery of Anne's unnamed colleague. It's been niggling at me since last night.'

That was okay with him. Hammering at an unsolvable problem did nobody much good anyway. Howland returned the salute of a passing trooper in greasy coveralls as they reached the CQ desk. 'Lead on, El-tee. It'll do us both good to have something else to do with our morning.'


	4. Chapter 4

  
Dolerite's laboratory wing was an impressive place. Howland knew next to nothing of the sciences but even he could recognise that this part of the post was fantastically well-equipped. What Castillo wouldn't give to have a glimpse of this stuff... he stamped solidly down onto that thought. Right now was not the time to devote attention, even unwilling attention, to that part of his mission. Right now, he and Bishop were just visiting in the hope of teasing out clearer answers about Doctor Travers' tardiness. 

The scientist in question was buried in a doorstop-sized technical manual, a partially-dismantled tall, cylindrical something or other surrounding her and a frowning male colleague. Anyone could surmise theirs was a conversation centred on 'how do we fix this thing?' It was a conversation interrupted when Bishop and Howland entered, the _clomp_ of Howland's jumpboots preceding them. 

'Is it important, Bill?' Doctor Travers asked. 'I haven't got a lot of time. This TEM needs putting back together before midday or we lose the specimens we were looking at.'

'Ah, well, it is, a bit,' the XO replied, a little flatfooted. 'Um – '

'Just clearing up last night's mystery.' Howland tried hard to keep a grin from his voice. It seemed to him that poor Bishop was not too used to being unexpectedly confronted with a girlfriend's moods. Howland himself was hardly a master at managing such things but he did at least have some practise. Just as long as nobody suggested to his wife that he knew how to handle her! 'We're curious about this unnamed colleague of yours.'

Doctor Travers' expression clouded, just for a second. 'He's not important. But since you're both here, perhaps you can help us with this.'

'Trade,' said Howland. 'Details for two extra pairs of hands.'

The other scientist was smirking, despite clearly trying not to. Beside him, Doctor Travers grappled with that before breathing out a sigh. 'Deal. Shirtsleeves, please. This is delicate equipment.'

Both soldiers shed their jackets, laying them across an unused work table nearby, then both took the precaution of tucking their ties between shirt buttons before rolling up their sleeves. Delicate work was delicate work, after all. 'What is this, even?'

'A transmission electron microscope. Which _should_ be perfectly functioning.' The chief scientist glared at the unit. 'We've been tinkering with the wretched thing all morning. It's valuable time lost, I can tell you!'

It was probably just as well she didn't get into details about what was wrong with the microscope, Howland decided. She'd lost him at 'transmission electron'. So he did the only thing he could in the moment. He redirected the conversation to more important matters. 'So. This colleague.'

'In a moment, Major. One of you hold this, please. Yes, just here. I think that's it. Jeff?'

Whatever this thing was, it was daggone fiddly. Howland held a doglegged part in place about halfway up the cylinder until Doctor Travers had managed by some means to tighten it in place. Even moving his hand by the tiniest amount earned him a curt rebuke. Science was maybe _too_ precise, he decided, and was happy he'd picked the infantry over anything else.

'His name is Patrick Beaton,' she said eventually, in between business-like instructions. 'He was a Fellow at the University of Edinburgh, until they sacked him.'

'Sacked him?'

'Yes. Nearly a year ago, as I recall.' She flicked briefly through the enormous technical manual, then adjusted what looked like an eyepiece. Further details about this Beaton guy came in between instructions to her repair crew, one of which resulted in Jeff having to haul himself onto the work bench to fiddle with something higher up the cylinder. 

It was a little tough to keep the two threads of conversation separate but Howland figured he understood most of both. Beaton was a geneticist of some prominence who had been caught conducting unsanctioned and unethical experiments with bats and human subjects, the latter of whom had no idea what they were being used for. He had, according to Travers' understanding, been attempting to modify human DNA, but she also confessed that her information was secondhand at best. The whole mess had been determinedly hushed up by the university – which didn't surprise Howland in the least – but obviously word got around in scientific circles. The public was a different story, naturally. No official word of the scandal was ever uttered.

The inevitable question came from Bishop. 'What'd he want from you?'

'My help with a project,' Doctor Travers replied. 'He didn't share many details but I'd hardly have given him the time of day regardless. He's a slime.'

'What exactly did he say?' Howland asked. 

'Exactly? He asked me first if I believed in vampires, bizarrely. Then he told me he needed 'competent female assistance'. If I hadn't already felt entirely disinclined to help him, I would've done then. The sheer nerve of – '

'Vampires?'

Doctor Travers steadied herself. 'Vampires. Yes. I'm not at all sure what he meant by that question. It was likely nothing. The general perception in professional circles here is that he's completely crackers. He has to be, having done what he did.'

There was a pause as Dolerite's chief scientist hoisted herself onto the table to more closely examine the tall round whatever-it-was. Bishop kept an eagle eye on her until she was safely back down on the floor. 'It's not perfect but it'll do, I hope. Get down, Jeff. Let's see if it works now.'

Jeff clambered down, then reached for a switch on the side of the whatever-it-was. There was a low hum from the unit but no visible sign that anything was working. Doctor Travers had a look through the eyepiece while she made some adjustments on a control panel. Then she sighed and stepped back.

'Still nothing. Blast. Power down, Jeff. We'll have to try taking the control panel apart. The problem might be in the wiring there.'

'Of course.' Jeff sounded quietly frustrated. He powered the unit off and crossed to the nearby wall socket to pull the unit's power plug.

'Anne, what if Beaton is still experimenting?' Bishop asked. He was, like Howland, more interested in what this Beaton character might be up to. The encounter Doctor Travers had had with him the previous evening clearly affected her. If a guy like that was asking other scientists for help, he had to be up to something.

'I don't want to think about that, Bill. I really don't.'

Howland passed her a screwdriver so she could begin taking apart the control panel. 'Hate to say it, but you oughta, ma'am. From what you've said, he's probably up to no good. It seems to me that experiments with bats and humans, and him askin' you if you believe in vampires... now, I'm not a real big believer in the supernatural, but I've read Bram Stoker. Seems to me, this guy's either trying to create vampires or something vampire-like, or he _is_ one and he's tryin' to reproduce.'

The other three frowned at him with varying expressions of disbelief. 'It's a bloody big leap from unethical experiments to creating vampires, sir,' Bishop pointed out. 'Besides, if he's a vampire, he'd be creating more vampires by biting people instead of mucking about with experiments.'

'But is it? I mean, c'mon. How quick would the public catch on to people suddenly wandering around with bite marks in their necks?' Now he was thinking about it, the connection seemed clear as crystal. 'It's worth looking into, regardless. That's what we're here for.'

'We're here for extraterrestrial threats, Major,' Doctor Travers told him.

'Not every threat is extraterrestrial, ma'am. The Yeti that damn near sacked NYC were home-grown, were they not?'

'They were, yes. These are two rather different cases.'

Howland shook his head. 'Not really. Stopping those Yeti was daggone tough. I saw the damage, and the casualties. The 69th Infantry lost some good troopers in that fight. I lost friends. All that happened even _with_ knowledge of the enemy. What do we really know about vampires? Do we know how they feed? How they sleep? How they operate? Do we even know how to kill them? I think this guy Beaton is at least trying to create a vampire, if he isn't actually one himself. Maybe there's no danger. Maybe there is. We won't know if we don't try to find out.'

'Right, okay. I'm convinced,' Bishop said. 'How do we investigate, though? We don't know where to find this bloke.'

'He tried to recruit Doctor Travers. So, that's our invitation. You can get in touch with him, ma'am, and tell him you've changed your mind. You've thought about it and realise he's on to something. That hopefully will get us in the door.'

'I want nothing to do with that man,' Doctor Travers said flatly. 'Not a blessed thing. Besides, I haven't the faintest idea where he lives. Nor do I really want to know.'

'We can't very well approach him ourselves, Anne. He'd smell a rat immediately.'

She regarded Bishop with the expression of someone being forced to contemplate a well-used slit trench. 'You realise what you're asking me to do.'

'The major's laid the case out pretty well, so yes. I think it's the only way we can at least figure out how dangerous Beaton and his experiments are.'

Silence rushed in and dominated for an interminable minute or so. There was evident conflict on the chief scientist's face. This was a tough thing to ask anyone, especially so quickly after connecting the dots to recognise a potential problem did in fact exist. Howland tried to think of alternative ways to readily get eyes on Beaton's operation without arousing suspicion but came up empty. Well. There were possibilities, but anybody with an ounce of perception would recognise a ruse when one presented itself. This was their surest bet.

'I will not do anything to physically help him,' she said at last. 'Finding out what he's up to so he can be stopped is another matter.'

'No problem,' Howland assured her. He was already framing up a plan of attack. Once given a task, a good paratrooper never went in blind. He always had a plan. 'You know this guy, ma'am. We don't. The XO and I will track down where he's at, but you'll have write yourself a script for what to say to convince him you're game to help him out.'

'I can be very persuasive, Major. Have no fear.'

Despite himself, Howland grinned. He had no doubt at all she could be just that. 'C'mon, El-tee. We're just in the way here and we've got our own work to do.'

The XO followed him out, both collecting their jackets on the way. 'How _do_ we track Beaton down, sir? For all we know, he's not even based in Edinburgh anymore.'

'Ah, El-tee. That's easy. We just gotta look in the phone book.' Howland grinned. 'Let's swing by your S-Two's office and grab him while we're at it. We'll need every advantage we can get with this.'

~

The addition of Lieutenant Smart, the Intelligence officer, proved largely a blessing. He had heard nothing that even remotely resembled vampiric activity but was able to offer an untainted outside perspective on the situation, including the plan to deal with Beaton. His assessment was that Beaton was getting his test subjects from somewhere, but the lack of anything being publicly amiss suggested he was taking those subjects from a part of society nobody paid attention to. 

'I've got pretty good ears around the city and nobody's as much as whispered a word about unusual missing persons or anything of that stripe,' the S2 told them. 'So whatever he's doing, he's being clever about it.'

Which meant there was no risk of accidentally getting the police involved. Fortunately. Howland sipped at the syrupy coffee he'd requested and considered. A simple search of the telephone directory had yielded Beaton's address, which Bishop had confirmed with the Post Office. Knowing where the enemy was only got them part of the way, though. After he'd heard the entire story, Smart had suggested the possibility that Beaton was out hunting when he'd run into Doctor Travers. If that was true, it meant chances were high that not only might she be asked to directly help with something seedy, there could well be a victim on the scene who'd need rescuing – and, in turn, somehow silencing. Word of any of this could not allowed to get out.

'I reckon the OSA might be enough,' Smart offered. 'Or the threat of an extended holiday at Wakefield. It'd be a rare soul who'd – '

A solid rap at Bishop's office door interrupted him. The XO looked very briefly annoyed. 'Come!'

The interloper was young Gilchrist, who marched in, stamped to attention, and briskly reported that, 'Sir, there's no sign of Two-Eight-Zero-Four-Three-Two-Two Corporal Burnham at any of the city's hospitals. Nor is he at Glencorse, Dreghorn, or Redford Barracks. The sergeant of the guard has not signed him back in through the gate. I must declare him AWOL, sir.'

'Stand easy, Lieutenant,' Bishop told the engineer and Gilchrist stamped to parade rest. 'I said stand _easy_ , Lieutenant. You're allowed to relax. That's better. Now. Have you completed an initial absence report?'

'Yes sir.' Gilchrist produced a tri-folded piece of paper.

'Very well. You've done your duty. The next steps are mine to take. Thank you, Lieutenant. Dismissed.'

Gilchrist stamped back to attention, about-faced as smoothly as butter, and marched out.

'He's got a massive bloody pacestick up his arse, doesn't he?' Smart observed after he'd gotten up to close the door.

'It's the Sandhurst effect, Ben,' said Bishop with a slight grin. 'Which neither of us know anything about. Anyway. I think we'll have to deal with the problem of a victim if and when we actually have one. For now... any fresh thoughts, sir?'

Having kept quiet up to now, Howland nodded. 'Only thing to add is a suggestion that Lieutenant Smart puts a word or two into ears he trusts, trying to find out more about any missing persons around the city. It hardly needs to be unusual. Hell, _unusual_ is probably a disqualifier. This guy Beaton will hardly want to draw attention to himself.'

'Understood. I'll get right on it, sir.' Smart stowed away his notebook. 'Reckon you'll be out most of the afternoon, sir?'

'Probably. Do up a report on anything you find out and sit on it till we're back. This shouldn't take till evening.' Bishop managed to sound confident, which was to his credit. 

'I'm off, then. Best luck, sirs.'

The XO waited until Smart had gone before sitting back in his chair and breathing out a sigh. His air of confidence visibly dissolved. Howland recognised his feeling. He'd been in that chair, figuratively speaking, himself. 'This is command for you, brother,' he remarked. 'It's the best leaden cape there is.'

'Yeah. I dunno how the Brig does it.' Bishop glanced at his watch and recovered himself. 'Right. Let's go find Anne. We'll do final planning over lunch, get out of our Twos, then be off.'

'Sounds good to me.' 

It was encouraging that the XO was on the ball, even when he seemed to be finding the burden of being in charge an awkward weight. He'd get used to it. Time and experience would make carrying the weight easier, even if it didn't make it any lighter. Howland retrieved his service cap from Bishop's desk and crossed to the door, which he held open. He had the rank but Bishop had the command. Whatever he might himself think of how he was handling it, Howland thought the XO was doing good work. He resolved to keep references to Bishop out of any report he ultimately delivered to Castillo. If this kid stuck with the Army, he'd end up going places for sure. It was not for anyone, never mind Gerritt Howland, to potentially ruin that for him.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Heriot Row was beyond question one of the nicer places to live in Edinburgh. Assuming, of course, one had sufficiently deep pockets and a desire to rub elbows with what passed for the _haute ton_ in these modern times. Anne sat in the front seat of Bill's car, her fingers laced in her lap as much in an attempt to appear untroubled as to keep herself from fidgeting with the microphone wire taped to her ribs beneath her jumper. PO Hawke had helped “wire her” up. It was a safety precaution just as much as it was a means to begin making a record of Beaton's activities. They could only hope he didn't deem it necessary to check her for any listening devices. 

Her fingernails dug into the backs of her hands and she had to tell herself to relax. Nerves did no good. This was an errand she wanted little part of, even though she realised nobody else could do the job that needed doing. Worse luck. She hadn't lied when she described Patrick Beaton as a slime. He was that and then some. She'd only met him once before, at a conference in York years ago, and even then she'd considered him vaguely unsavoury despite his evident expertise in his field. 

Her eyes trailed along the row of elegant greystone townhouses. Beaton's address was Number Seventeen. There was an almost unfortunate irony in that, she thought. She could only hope nothing properly unfortunate would happen once she went through that front door. It was a comfort to have Bill along, though. It always was. Bill and Major Howland as well. Anne sighed inwardly. Major Howland... was something of a question mark, in her view. He was polite – his insistence on addressing her either as “Doctor” or “ma'am” was endearing – and crisply efficient in the way that career soldiers were. There was something about him that seemed amiss, however. Something she sensed instinctively but couldn't put her finger on. She learned long ago to trust her instincts, yet it was evident to her that Bill liked the American paratrooper. Best, then, to keep doubts to herself.

None of this of course did her nerves any good where the present chore was concerned. Lord, she wanted this part of the day over with as quickly and uneventfully as possible.

'That's it,' Major Howland declared from the backseat. 'Red door, brass lion's head door knocker. Number Seventeen.'

'I won't park up here. Not where he might see. Will you be all right walking back from the junction?'

'Yes. It'll let me settle myself.' She smiled, more for Bill's sake than her own. The prospect of danger didn't bother her. Danger was something she'd gotten accustomed to. What troubled her was potentially becoming involved in highly questionable experiments. Science was something she deeply loved and it sickened her to even brush against anything that threatened to warp the boundaries within which all other self-respecting scientist lived. Determination to stop Beaton therefore clashed with her distaste both for him as a scientist and for his work. 

She stayed seated for a minute after Bill had swung the silver Ford Anglia in to the kerb, only a few metres away from the end of Heriot Row. There was little doubt that this was the only course to take but she still wished someone else was about to plunge headfirst into the proverbial lion's den. This was down to her right then, however. Nothing for it but to grit her teeth and get on with it. 

'Time I was off,' she said. 

'Be careful.'

Bill's eyes were on her back as she got out of the car and set off down the pavement. Careful. Not like she could – or would – be anything less. He wasn't all that far away if things went wrong. They had agreed on a particular phrase that would signal distress and bring them both running. There were safety nets in place, she reminded herself. She was not dangerously on her own. Keeping that fact in the back of her mind helped.

The door knocker on Number Seventeen was indeed a brass lion's head. Major Howland had good eyes. She lifted it and rapped four times, then stepped back to wait. A minute passed. Then two. Perhaps Beaton wasn't at home? Part of her hoped so. This hope was dashed when she heard a deadbolt being drawn back on the other side of the door. 

'Yes, what – Anne! Why, you came! Fantastic! Come in, come in. Shall I put the kettle on? I'm glad you came. Here, I'll take your coat...'

It was all she could do not to pull away from his hands. There was no harm in letting him be a gentleman, despite the idea of his hands touching any of her clothing made her stomach turn. 'Tea would be lovely, thank you.'

Beaton shut and deadbolted the front door, then bustled past her to lead the way to the kitchen. The bolt being thrown made Anne's heart sink. She'd have to address that somehow if trouble struck, or else nobody would be getting through the door.

'I presume you have reconsidered my offer, since you're here?'

'I have, yes. It was so suddenly put to me, I had no chance to think it over.'

'Of course, of course. I do apologise. That was naturally my fault, springing such a request on you out of the blue. But here you are. Would you like to see what needs to be done? Come along, everything's down in the laboratory, this way.'

The sheer force of his eagerness drew Anne along in his wake as Beaton hurried through a door that led down a flight of stairs. He had never gone near the kettle or the cooker. She could only hope the microphone transmitter would be able to get a signal out through the stone walls. If not... she dared not think about that.

At the bottom of the stairs, Anne halted. The basement was not a basement but a makeshift laboratory. Two microscopes – one an electron microscope and the other, bewildering, a stereo – sat on a wall-to-wall work table directly opposite the stairs, with a specimen cooler just to the right. Shelves above the table were covered with boxes of specimen slides and spare parts. A large teak cabinet backed onto the stairs. On the far end of the basement-cum-laboratory was a metal dish sink and counter. 

Anne took all this in at a glance before her eyes were drawn to an altogether more unsettling sight. How she'd missed in her initial survey of the basement, she couldn't say. But there, tied quite firmly to a metal office chair, was a solid-built man with a handkerchief wadded into his mouth. He was glaring absolute venom at Beaton, who was oblivious. She bit down on her tongue to keep from gasping. She knew that poor soul. What on _earth_ was he doing here? She met his furious gaze and strove to keep any hint of recognition from her face. Events felt like they were beginning to spiral out of her control.

'It's best to show you first, my dear. Come have a look. Just here. Tell me what you see.'

It took all her willpower to move away from the stairs toward the microscope Beaton was gesturing at. Her arrival must have interrupted him. Good. She looked through the eyepieces and was singularly relieved to see only cells on the specimen slide. The relief vanished instantly. What kind of cells were these? Where had they come from? Did she even dare ask?

'They're cells,' she replied, looking up.

Beaton was rubbing his hands together. 'Indeed they are! They're cells from an embryo. I confess your turning up this afternoon is providential. Truly providential.'

He went to explain, in a voice better suited to an excited schoolboy, that his project revolved around inserting specific strands of DNA drawn from bats – specifically, _Diaemus youngi_ – into human cells, which would then be implanted into female hosts for fertilisation. The object, he informed her, was to produce a modified human. Ultimately, he wished to create a form of _homo sapiens_ which ought to be capable of metamorphosis. So far, he'd only met with failure but having an expert assistant could well make all the difference. 

'The biggest trouble has been the transfection,' Beaton said. 'That is where you will come in.' Something in her expression must have clued him in to her disquiet, for he was quick to add, 'Have no fear, Anne! I don't need you to act as a source of cells, or even as a host. Good heavens, no. I have that requirement quite well addressed. No, what I am in greatest need of are a second set of sharp eyes and another pair of steady hands. Particularly just now, if you are amenable.'

Anne fought down a rising sense of nausea. 'I wish I could, Patrick, but I can't. Not this afternoon, at least. There are meetings I'm expected at, soon.'

'Of course, of course. One's time is seldom one's own.' There was obvious disappointment in Beaton's voice. 'I will be glad of your help whenever you're free to give it. In the interim, I shall carry on with the leg work.' The glance he cast at the glowering, seething, man in the chair was openly predatory. Anne felt her stomach clench. There were only so many possible meanings for that remark. None of them were good. 

'I'm happy to help, of course.' She began to retreat up the stairs, wanting only to get away from him, but he was following her. Up the stairs, through the kitchen, down the entry hall, and to the front door. Did he suspect? No – despite her heightening alarm, Beaton was only retrieving her coat and holding it out for her to slip on. 

'It will be delightful to have a capable assistant, my dear. You can hardly imagine.'

She pasted a smile onto her face and prayed it didn't appear forced. 'I've always had a passing interest in genetics. It will be fascinating to learn more about it, and your work.'

The drawing back of the deadbolt reverberated in her ears. She managed, somehow, to walk casually out onto the front steps and then down them. She mustn't glance back even though she was certain Beaton was watching. Maintaining an unhurried stride down the pavement was far from easy. All she wanted to do was run and put as much distance as possible between her and that evil house. Such was her determination to appear natural that she walked several yards around the corner onto Howe Street before she felt safe enough to abandon the charade.

Then, as if by wonderful magic, Bill was there at her elbow. The dark blue of his safari jacket loomed large in her peripheral vision. 'It's okay, Anne,' he told her, guiding her to the car. The car, which she hadn't even realised had been moved. The car, which contained only the two of them. Where was Major Howland? 

'Patrick Beaton is wholly, irretrievably, crackers, Bill,' she said, once she was safely in the passenger's seat. 'We can't stop him soon enough.'

'I know. We heard everything. It's all down on tape. Don't worry. We'll sort him out.' Bill started the car. He explained, as he pulled away from the kerb, that they had only to retrieve Major Howland from around the mews behind the townhouses before they could be off back to Dolerite. It was time, he said grimly, for a council of war. Anne could hardly have agreed more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to gently observe that, as much as I strive to layer realism into my stories, they are still stories and therefore works of fiction.


	6. Chapter 6

  
The mood in the conference room was tangibly grim. With the exception of Lieutenant Gilchrist, all the soldiers present were wearing plain, unadorned OD fatigues and webbing pistol belts. The grumpy Captain Stamper had issued sidearms and ammunition only minutes ago, before the mission brief began. Doctor Travers had led off with her report and delivered it in a cool, factual manner. She had, somehow, detached herself from the emotions she'd felt immediately after leaving Beaton's house. Quite to her credit, really. She produced a map of the first floor, indicating with precision where there were doorways and in which direction any physical doors opened. Lieutenant Bishop had then played the recording of the visit.

Nobody spoke for a moment after the tape deck had been switched off. There was nothing to really say. The recorded dialogue left no room for doubts. They were dealing with a man who appeared to be close to a dangerous scientific breakthrough. A man who also had a live hostage. The police ought to take charge of a mess like this, and probably would if it maintaining absolute operational secrecy wasn't so important. No word of this could get out until after the dust settled. That aspect of it ratcheted up the risk considerably. They could hardly treat this like a typical infantry assault. Not if they wanted to avoid being front page news tomorrow.

The silence was broken by Bishop. 'The man being held in the basement laboratory is Corporal Burnham. Doctor Travers has reported as much. We must, therefore, take a little more care when we go in. It's one thing to storm a building when all its occupants are mobile. It's very much another when there's a hostage. So. Our approach has to be decisive but restrained. The plan is this: six of us will go in one Land Rover to the target address. Everyone will be wearing greatcoats to conceal the fact we're all armed. Captain Lindsay will be driving. He'll park up at the east end of Heriot Row where it meets Howe Street, facing west. Doctor Travers will be the first out, as soon as we arrive. She will go into the target address as if all is normal. After ten minutes, Major Howland and Sergeant Allenwood will debus and make their way around the mews on Northumberland Street Southwest Lane. They are to take up positions inside the back garden of the target address and wait for the signal to make entry.

'After twenty minutes, myself and the RSM will debus and approach the front door of the target address. We will take cover on the basement stairs of the neighbouring house to the left. The front door has a deadbolt which Doctor Travers will ensure is withdrawn. At twenty-five minutes, Captain Lindsay will drive around to the mews and wait two houses to the east of the target address. At thirty minutes on the mark, entry will be made at front and back. This must be done in total silence. We know where the threat is so there's no need to search the whole building or unnecessarily advertise our presence. The entrance to the basement is in the kitchen, to the immediate right of the door opening to the entry hall.' Bishop pointed to the map Doctor Travers had drawn. 

'No one is to fire unless there is an articulable and immediate risk to life. We have to remember that this is a populated neighbourhood, and any disturbance can be expected to prompt a police response. Once the target is in custody, everyone but the RSM will withdraw to the back garden. Captain Lindsay will be waiting there with the Land Rover. The RSM will secure the front and back doors, then also withdraw. If his assistance is required, Captain Lindsay will approach through the back garden. It's extremely important that we aren't in the target address any longer than thirty minutes. We have to get in, do the job, and get out. Any questions?'

There were none. Bishop nodded. 'Good. Lieutenant Gilchrist, your detachment will be involved tomorrow. Lieutenant Smart is procuring the necessary uniforms and kit to let you masquerade as furniture movers. Your job will be to carefully dismantle and remove everything in the basement laboratory and bring it here for analysis. You will also sterilise the whole of the basement to eliminate any trace of evidence that might be too small to see. Once the job is done, your detachment will secure all entrances and withdraw. Questions?'

'No sir.'

'Good.' The XO checked his watch. 'The time is now sixteen-twenty-six. Sunset will be approximately at seventeen-hundred. Everyone except Lieutenant Gilchrist will assemble outside the Castle by sixteen-forty-five with all necessary kit. Questions?'

Again, there were none. Bishop had left no room for them. It was a good, clear mission brief. This kid had a damned good head on his shoulders. 

Bishop nodded. 'Right then. Dismissed.'

~

Most things looked different in the dark. City streets were no exception. The Land Rover cruised past Beaton's house but Howland had trouble spotting it without halfhearted midday winter sunlight to brighten things up. Therein lay the importance of using other means to confirm the location, such as simply counting houses as they passed. He found himself wishing he had SSG Everett with him for this. There was nobody better at operating in darkness than the former tunnel rat. Just as well he wasn't here, though. Everett's racism was bone-deep and seldom concealed. There was no way he could work peaceably with Sergeant Major Ware.

'Best I can do is round the corner,' Captain Lindsay reported, guiding the Land Rover onto Howe Street. 'Everyone's come home for the night by now.'

'It's near enough,' Bishop replied.

Silence marched back in as Lindsay found a place to park some distance from the corner. It wasn't not ideal but they had no option. Double-parking would only attract police notice. Howland looked at his watch. It was seventeen-twenty-nine. He wasn't the only one noting the time. Bishop's eye was on his own watch, following the second hand as it swept around. At precisely seventeen-thirty, he looked up.

'Off you go, Anne.'

Doctor Travers was out and gone without a word. If she was nervous, she showed no sign. Maybe it helped that this time, she was going in there to help shut Beaton down. Bishop fidgeted briefly once she was gone before visibly getting himself in control. Nerves on his part were understandable. Not only was he in charge but he was sending his girl back into enemy territory, which was soon to be stormed. 

'Have a smoke, El-tee. It helps,' Howland suggested.

'I don't smoke, actually.'

'You will if you stay in.' The major grinned. 'Chew some gum then. It'll give you something harmless to concentrate on while we wait.'

Lindsay's sergeant, Allenwood, held out a pack of gum. 'He ain't wrong, sir.'

'Besides, sir,' offered Sergeant Major Ware, 'the enemy can't smell gum being chewed.'

'Charlie can.' Howland shook his head.

'Charlie?'

'The Viet Cong,' he clarified. 'Sneaky, clever, lethal bastards. But I'd rather square off with them than this Beaton guy, I gotta say. Better the devil you know, basically.'

'Sounds like how the MNLA were,' Allenwood said.

'The EOKA too,' Ware added.

'Cyprus isn't the jungle, though,' Captain Lindsay pointed out.

'Doesn't make the enemy there any less clever or lethal, sir,' Ware replied, a little frostily.

Bishop cleared his throat around the wad of chewing gum in his cheek. 'Let's refocus. Check weapons.'

The men in the back of the Land Rover drew out their sidearms, dropped the magazines to check them, then worked the Brownings' slides to be sure they moved easily. The staccato clatter of metal on metal ended when each magazine was slid back home and a round finally chambered. The Browning was a good weapon. Not the same sort of punch as the M1911 had but it made up for that with a larger magazine. 

Howland fastened the strap of his webbing holster, pulled it free again, then did it back up. He was familiar with the Browning but not this kind of holster. There wasn't much time to get used to it, either. He decided he'd loosen the strap shortly before he and Allenwood breached the back door. It wouldn't do to find himself wrestling with the unfamiliar holster if he needed to have the Browning out in a hurry.

'Major, you're off in ninety seconds.'

'Roger. Ready, Sergeant?' The almost-argument and weapons check had soaked up the ten-minute interval. Allenwood nodded. Good. 'Stand in the door.'

The direction was nonsensical but intended to take the edge off last-second nerves. It drew a huffed chuckle from Ware, who either knew what that command meant or could guess at it. Howland breathed out slowly, dissipating the attempt at levity. This was no different from stepping off on a patrol into the jungle. Total focus was required. 

'Go,' said Bishop.

Howland and Allenwood clambered out of the Land Rover. It took less than ten seconds. They took precisely five to check that their greatcoats weren't bunched around their weapons before strolling away up Howe Street. Hurrying would draw attention to themselves. Besides, they had nine and a half minutes before Bishop and Ware stepped off to take up their own positions. It wasn't all that much time, ultimately, but it was enough.

'You've been in the jungles too, Sarn't?'

'Briefly, sir. Spent a couple months in Malaya during the Emergency. Made me wish I'd been sent back to Aden.'

'Just one tour?'

'Yes, thank God.' The medical sergeant shook his head. 'I take you done more?'

'Three, at a year a pop,' answered Howland. 

Allenwood let out a low whistle. 'Lucky me, then. Three months did it for me.'

'Wounded?'

' "Unfit for theatre", actually,' was the reply. 'Dead scared of the creepy-crawlies, me. They couldn't get me packed off home fast enough.'

It was all Howland could do not to laugh. Soldiers' humour was the best kind. He settled for grinning at Allenwood. 'Noise discipline now, Doc. We can't let the neighbourhood know we're here.' He nodded at the backs of the houses on their right side as they reached the mews. 'Number Seventeen is the third one in from the corner. That one there.'

The pair sized up the wall that faced them. In the wall was a gate, which fitted almost seamlessly. There was also a shed with a single wide door. This was ignored. The gate was their point of entry. Howland lifted the latch and eased the gate open. He'd seen to the removal of the lock as an obstacle on his initial recon earlier in the day. Once they were through, he eased the gate shut again. The hinges blessedly made little noise.

Now all they could do was hunker down in the shadows to wait. 

~

In contrast to its dimness on her first visit here, the basement laboratory was now brightly lit. Anne was glad for that. This much light felt like a safety blanket against the innate darkness of the man beside her, busily scraping a fresh specimen onto a glass slide. So far, she had been fortunate. Beaton had only asked her to observe as he prepared to inject that specimen into embryonic cells. If all went well, he assured her that the next step would be considerably easier.

All going well, she thought, there'd be no next step. She peered again into the electron microscope and tried to ignore the molten glare from the bound and gagged Corporal Burnham. The unfortunate soldier had suffered at some point in the afternoon. One of his sleeves had been cut to the elbow and samples taken from him. Thin trickles of dried blood snaked down his forearm. There was also a fresh bruise around one eye. She'd noticed a lump on Beaton's forehead, however, and surmised that Burnham had somehow managed to express his lack of consent. There was nothing she could do for the corporal until the others came swooping in, however much she might want to. The best she could manage was to pretend he simply wasn't there. 

'That should do,' Beaton declared, placing the slide beneath the lens of the stereo microscope. 'I ought to have it this time. Here goes.'

Anne willed herself to keep calm and glanced quickly at her watch. She had been down here perhaps twenty minutes. Bill and the others should be in position now. The deadbolt on the front door needed to be pulled back, or they'd never get past it. Now was the best time. 'It's a little unseemly to ask, but where's the toilet?' 

'Hm? Oh. Upstairs, my dear. First floor at the top of the stairs.'

The directions were given without looking, such was Beaton's focus on what he was doing. Anne turned away. The last thing she wanted was to watch him work. She was careful to step lightly up the basement stairs, and equally so through the kitchen and entry hall, to the front door. The floorboards creaked in certain places and she wanted to make as little noise as possible. A creak in the wrong spot could alert Beaton to her being near the front door. Then the floor did creak, just as she was reaching for the deadbolt. 

She froze instantly, then just as instantly decided the risk of not unbolting the door far outweighed the risk of being caught. So she pulled the deadbolt back as smoothly as she could and turned to go up the stairs to the first floor. All she could do was hope Beaton didn't come up to check on her. It was tempting once she was in the bathroom to stay there until after everything was over, but Beaton expected her back in a few minutes. He'd certainly be suspicious if she failed to return.

At least there were only five minutes to go. It was nearly six o'clock. Anne regarded her reflection in the mirror for a moment. This was not work she enjoyed. She wasn't suited to it. She was a scientist, not a spy. Then she sighed and reached out to flush the toilet. It was time to get back down to the basement. Five more minutes and this would be over. The front door was still unbolted when she reached the entry hall, which was a tremendous relief. She decided to take a chance and opened the door a crack, taking care to avoid the creaky spot on the floor. 

Now she really had to get back downstairs. There were less than five minutes to go. As she descended the stairs into the basement laboratory, however, the only person to take note of her was Corporal Burnham. The corporal was still glaring, still radiating defiant hostility. Anne couldn't blame him. For all he likely knew, she was complicit with Beaton in what was happening to him. 

'Oh you're back? Marvellous. Come here, come here, you must see this. I believe I have – '

The floor above them suddenly creaked, beginning at the front of the house. Nearly in the same second, something in the kitchen crashed. This was it. Anne darted across the floor, away from the stairs. She had no idea who would be coming down first but wanted to be well out of the way. Soldiers had an unfortunate tendency to enter a room shooting first. The safest place to be was next to the chair to which Corporal Burnham was tied. 

The first legs to come running down the stairs belonged to Major Howland, with Sergeant Allenwood hard on his heels. Things then happened fast. Impossibly fast. Shouting, sudden lunging movement, and two horrifically loud gunshots. Anne felt that she had only blinked in the time it took for the whole situation to flip itself onto its ear. The stink of cordite burned her nostrils and her ears rang. But there was Bill in front of her, both hands on her shoulders, asking something that she could not hear.

She looked past him to see Beaton in a heap on the floor with Sergeant Allenwood on his knees beside him, pressing a field dressing against his torso. Major Howland was standing over them, his gun still out, but lowered. Crouching next to Corporal Burnham was Samson Ware, using a knife to cut carefully through the ropes keeping the corporal confined. Now here came Doctor Lindsay flying down the stairs, a medical bag in hand. He went directly to help his sergeant. 

Anne breathed out. That was it. It had all happened so quickly, she wasn't sure she could properly trust her own senses. It was over though. Just like that, it was over.


	7. Chapter 7

Major Howland sat back and flexed his fingers with a grimace. He had just finished typing his AAR. Finally. He sat in Lieutenant Smart's office, making use of the S2's typewriter. A stone-cold mug of over-sugared coffee and the remnants of a bacon sandwich sat on the desk, both delivered fresh some two hours ago by Doc Allenwood. They had been careful not to converse, following Lieutenant Bishop's order to not discuss the evening's operation. The XO was handling business like a pro. He'd requested written reports from everyone involved including Doctor Travers, directed the military police staff NCO, Chambers, to post armed sentries outside the infirmary, and designated Lieutenant Smart to be point-of-contact with the Edinburgh City Police, since the commotion of the shooting had attracted a pretty speedy reaction from them.

A yawn rippled up. He didn't bother to try stifling it. It was nearly zero-one-hundred. It'd been a long day, with plenty left to do. He still had to compose and type a report for that shark Castillo and hope nobody interrupted him while he was at it. Bishop had cabled Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart to bring him up to speed and the Support Group's CO was making his way back to Edinburgh. All had to appear normal when he showed up. Howland reached for the ceramic mug. He'd done a lot of thinking about the orders he'd gotten from Colonel Castillo. The threat to the confirmation of his S3 slot with the 514th and promise of a special court-martial were quickly losing weight in the face of his increasing awareness that he had no business documenting anything about the Support Group's operations. The dilemma was how best to express “nothing to report” in terms that wouldn't immediately ruin his career.

The cold, sludgy coffee oozed down his throat. He didn't mind. It was only room temperature, not frozen. He smiled ruefully as he set the mug down. Even twenty years later, there were times he could still taste the harsh iciness of coffee made on the march through Hellfire Valley. That formed another part of his thinking against obeying Colonel Castillo. He'd worn a uniform since he was twenty-three, fought two wars, and always put his duty first. In some ways, he'd given vastly more than he'd asked for, first to the Marine Corps and then to the Army. It might not be so bad if he called it a career on his own terms and went on to spend more time with his family. Or what was potentially left of it. He swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat. Yeah, if that's how all of this shook out, so be it.

He cleared his throat and swiped briskly at his eyes. Right. Moment of weakness over. He cranked the side knob, pulled out the finished page, and laid it aside. A fresh sheet was easy to fit in around the roller. Once all of this was done, he'd have to remember to remove the ribbon and destroy it. The last thing he needed was for anyone to check it and possibly figure out what he was typing. His fingers settled over the keys, but then slid down to the desk. Even being certain about what the right thing was, taking that plunge to _do_ the right thing was damned hard. Howland closed his eyes, breathed slowly out, then lifted his hands back to the keys. There was a job to do and it had to be done before the brigadier got back. 

~

Unenthusiastic daylight was easing the gloomy grey when the Land Rover reached the outskirts of Edinburgh. Corporal Stirling's cheerful, 'Ten minutes, sir,' roused Lethbridge-Stewart from the fitful doze he'd drifted off into somewhere around Selkirk. Having a tireless driver was a luxury he was beginning to see the benefit of. He rubbed at his eyes and sat up in the seat, then looked at his watch. It was nearly ten-hundred. It was a wintertime annoyance that the morning was considerably advanced by the time the sun finally came up. So much time was lost to seasonal darkness. In the same breath, he also acknowledged that ten minutes was not a long time. He mentally reviewed what Bishop had told him last night. They had discovered, investigated, and captured what they believed to be a vampire. A vampire who had unknowingly kidnapped one of Dolerite's assigned Royal Engineers with the intention of using him as some kind of test subject. The constraints of time had kept Bishop from offering all the details, relevant and otherwise, but that was why Lethbridge-Stewart had elected to cut short his business in London. 

Neither he nor Stirling spoke for the remainder of the journey. Conversation had been sparse since before leaving London. Lethbridge-Stewart reckoned that just as well. He'd used the time to think without interruption. Then, he'd managed to get a little sleep. The cityscape rolled past and the familiar dominant shadow of the Castle grew larger ahead of them. Even being aware he was going to be confronted with Corps business as soon as he got back, it still felt like coming home.

The sentry on the gate was Sergeant McManus, who seemed relieved to note it was Lethbridge-Stewart in the Land Rover when he approached and saluted. 'ID, sir. Thank you. Welcome back, sir. Drive on.'

McManus' greeting dissolved Lethbridge-Stewart's fleeting good feeling. He sighed. That made precious little sense but it was still so. Stirling parked up outside the barracks and fairly bounced out of the car. 'I'll sort out the kitbags, sir.'

'Thank you, Corporal.' The brigadier unfolded himself from the passenger's seat. It was still dark enough to afford him welcome anonymity as he entered the barracks. A few minutes later he was down in Dolerite and heading for his adjutant's office. Like as not, Bishop would not be there. In the wake of an operation like last night's, he might well be elsewhere in the base, seeing to the thousand and one small matters that needed seeing to in order to be sure all the necessary procedural boxes were ticked. His surprise was considerable, therefore, when he reached the office and found not only Bishop but also Major Howland and Lieutenant Smart in residence, hunched over papers scattered across the desk.

' 'Shun!' Smart barked, being the first to spot him. The other two were instantly on their feet.

'As you were. What's the latest, Lieutenant?'

'No significant changes from my report last night, sir. The vampire – sorry, suspected vampire – is still under guard in the infirmary. Doctor Lindsay says his condition isn't critical. We intend surrendering him to the police this afternoon. Corporal Burnham has been released from the infirmary but is under medical restriction. He is excused all duties until tomorrow evening when Doctor Lindsay will reassess him. Lieutenant Gilchrist and his detachment are presently at the Heriot Row address dismantling the laboratory under Jeff Erickson's supervision, under the guise of furniture movers. Right now, we're reviewing police reports of persons found “sleeping rough”. It's our belief that this suspected vampire was using the city's roofless and hard-drinking populations as a ready pool of test subjects.'

Lethbridge-Stewart considered this. He had yet, of course, to delve into any of the formal reports or speak personally with anyone else, but Bishop's summary offered plenty to think about. It was a great temptation to go see the Heriot Row address for himself, but his turning up there would only interfere with Lieutenant Gilchrist's operation. Besides which, he was in uniform, where Gilchrist and his men were not. 'It seems you have matters well in hand, Lieutenant. I would still like to see everyone involved with the raid in the main conference room in twenty minutes, with all of your reports to hand.'

'Twenty minutes on the nose, sir.'

'Room 'shun!' Smart snapped, but the three officers got only halfway out of their chairs. Lethbridge-Stewart had already showed himself out. Twenty minutes should grant him enough time to settle into his office for a moment, shake off the last of his travel lethargy, and arrange for lunch to be delivered from the canteen. A thorough verbal debrief was in order and he preferred to receive that debrief in one go. As the commanding officer, that was his right after all.

~

'We're still not sure whose round brought the target down, sir,' Howland told the brigadier. His was the last report to be given. 'Doc Allenwood and I did both fire. Then Doc went straight in to render aid and I covered him in the event the target was still actively hostile. He wasn't. Captain Lindsay was on the scene a couple minutes later to help him. Whichever one of us did get him doesn't matter anyway. The target was captured alive and the threat he posed neutralised. It was good work all around.'

There were nods from the others around the table. None of them had materially contradicted each other. A few scattered unimportant details didn't exactly match but that was inevitable. Only fabricated accounts perfectly lined up with each other. Howland passed his AAR up the table to the brigadier. On the subject of the raid and things relating to it, he had nothing to add. Other things could only be privately addressed, which was not an interview he looked forward to at all.

'Thank you, Major,' Lethbridge-Stewart said, accepting the stapled report and adding it to the pile in front of him. 'Captain Lindsay, how fit is the prisoner for questioning?'

'He's perfectly fit for it, sir, but he only answers that he has nothing to say to any question put to him, even if he's asked if he's hungry.' Lindsay looked weary. 'I've already briefed the police surgeon. He'll attend with Detective Inspector MacPartland to collect the prisoner this afternoon.'

'Are we sure giving the prisoner up is the wisest thing to do, sir?' Sergeant Major Ware wanted to know. 'We've barely had him a day and haven't even begun to examine the pieces of his lab or his research notes. For all we know, it's more dangerous to put him in a public prison.'

An answer was not forthcoming until Lindsay swallowed the last half-mouthful of cheese sandwich he'd taken. 'He'll never see a public prison, Mister Ware. I've taken care of that.' This was news to Howland, and everyone else around the table. They all looked at Lindsay with upraised eyebrows. The medical officer smiled. 'As everyone present knows, we don't have the capacity or the authority to hold anyone in prolonged confinement. Not in any facilities we possess as a corps. However, there are acceptable alternatives. I do not personally believe the prisoner to be a vampire but I do very much consider him a danger to the general public. This is something I've discussed with my police counterpart. It's our collective recommendation that the prisoner be placed immediately into custody at the State Hospital.'

'That's somewhat presumptive of you, Doctor,' said Lethbridge-Stewart.

'With respect, sir, it isn't. My medical judgement is paramount in a case of this sort. Where the complete health and state of fitness of a person, prisoner or otherwise, is concerned, the final meaningful say is mine.' Lindsay calmly chose another sandwich, this one sausage and pickle. 'Having the prisoner sectioned also means he will not stand trial, which protects the secrecy and operations of this corps. It is perhaps superficially untoward but it serves the greater good vastly better than any other course of action.'

The guy had a point. A damned good point. Howland picked at the now-cold wedge-cut fries on his plate. Nothing about this mess was conventional, so it couldn't be handled in any conventional way. It was a good lesson to learn as a spectator rather than as a direct participant. Could the 514th handle itself with similar ruthlessness if it needed to? He dearly hoped so.

'The MO's right, sir,' Bishop told his CO. 'Given how completely off the radar the prisoner was before he came to our attention, it's much too dangerous to turn him loose in any mainstream prison population. It protects the public best to quietly lock him away as a lunatic.'

The frown on Lethbridge-Stewart's face hinted at what he likely thought of that, but he nodded. 'Very well. We will retain possession of all of his scientific things, I expect? His notes and all that?'

'Beyond question,' replied Doctor Travers. 'I want to examine every page myself. He's a disgusting human being and a disgrace to the scientific profession, but it can only help to have an understanding of what stage his research was at.'

'The adj and I will keep going over those police reports as well, sir,' Smart put in. 'There's something about how the prisoner handled his test subjects, both before and after their actual use as test subjects, that bothers me but I can't yet determine what.'

'In other words, we still need to investigate this matter.'

'We do, sir. Unless he decides to answer questions, the only thing we can do is try to answer them ourselves. Removing the danger doesn't necessarily stop the threat.'

Lethbridge-Stewart's frown deepened. 'You and Doctor Travers will continue to investigate, Lieutenant. I expect regular updates.'

'Yes sir.'

'Is there anything else?'

Howland looked around the table. He got the feeling that, for the most part, no one had much else to add. The debrief had been meticulous. He set down the fry he'd been about to eat and suppressed a sigh. 'I have to speak with you in private after, sir.'

The focus of every eye on him made him feel all the more uneasy. This wasn't something he wanted to do but it had to be done. He couldn't not do this. 

'Very well, Major. Lieutenant Bishop, see that a suitable armed escort is on hand when the police arrive for the prisoner. We can't afford any lapses in security. That will be all. Thank you, everyone. Dismissed.'

It was best to appear outwardly calm as the gathering broke up. Howland made himself eat the last couple fries on his plate. Even having decided to out himself, he still found the weight of the probable consequences heavy on his shoulders. The only way to avoid a court martial for this was to retire, which he'd have to prepare for as soon as he got back to Drum.

The door clicked shut behind Lieutenant Smart, leaving him alone in the conference room with the brigadier. Lethbridge-Stewart was watching him expectantly. That didn't help. Howland sighed. 'I've been dishonest with you, sir. Not by choice, but that doesn't matter. I was ordered by a senior officer I can't name in a capacity I can't describe to spy on you and the Support Group. The object was to learn the finer details of your operations so those operations could be possibly interfered with. I was also ordered to get a hold of whatever communications information I could. Radio frequencies, signals equipment descriptions, that kind of thing. The Army Security Agency has a listening station at Menwith Hill, sir. Its primary purpose is to monitor the Russians but lately it's also been trying to get ears on this place since certain people learned it existed. My being sent here was considered an opportunity to get those ears in the door.'

He took a copy of the report he'd prepared for Colonel Castillo from inside his jacket and stood to deliver it to Lethbridge-Stewart's hand. It was a full single page that used a lot of words to say “pound sand”. 'This is the report I'm going to send back. The least I can do before heading home is give you the head's up.'

Lethbridge-Stewart said nothing as he read the report. When at length he looked up again, his expression was stony. 'Have you done anything to compromise the security of this corps or this base?'

'No sir. The only notes I took related to the command briefing I observed on day one and the operation we just concluded. They were routine highlights which I would make in any circumstances. I've already destroyed them all the same. In my A bag is a small box of equipment I was to make use of but have not touched. I'll put it into your hands within the hour.'

'You've told this unnamed senior officer nothing?'

'Not a word, sir.' Howland shook his head. 'This isn't a job I liked from the second it was dropped on me, but I was given no alternative. Honestly, sir, I still don't have an alternative, but that's my problem to deal with.'

The brigadier laid the report face down on the table. 'What will happen when this officer learns you have not done this “job”?'

'At best, I'll be dumped at a backwater post like Fort Polk,' he replied. Or maybe not Polk, he thought. Maybe he'd be sent back to Vietnam. If he was, he could do more to find Amanda than he could anywhere else in the world. That opportunity alone would make a fourth tour worth it.

'At worst, loss of commission and pension. I'll cope with that, though. My integrity is more important than my career.' A court martial on fictitious charges seemed the most likely outcome, though. Castillo could hardly risk put any of his shady dealing on the record. Howland decided he'd need to consult Drum's Staff Judge Advocate's office for advice.

'Hm.' The stony expression seemed only to harden. 'In the circumstances, I think it's best for everyone that you leave Dolerite at once, Major. I'll arrange your transport back to Turnhouse. Where you go from there is not something I wish to know.'

'Understood, sir. As I said, this is my problem to deal with now.' He picked up his service cap and headed for the door. Being given the boot was no more than he'd expected. What he didn't expect, though, was to be stopped just at the door by one last question.

'Tell me, Major. Why _didn't_ you follow the orders to spy which you were given?'

That... Howland almost smiled. That was probably the easiest question he could ever be asked. 'I'm a paratrooper. Backstabbing friends is not how the Airborne does business.' He came to the position of attention with a stamp of his heels. 'Fair winds, sir.' Then he right-faced smoothly and marched himself out. 

All things considered, that had gone as well as it could have. The hurt had been well concealed but Howland knew it was there. So was the awareness that the US Army couldn't be trusted. It was for the best that Lethbridge-Stewart learn that without any damage done to the Support Group. Now all he had to do was go home, in further violation of his orders to continue on to the ASA station, and face whatever storm Castillo unleashed on him. 

His jump boots thudded over the concrete floor toward the elevator leading up out of Dolerite. At least, he thought, he'd been able to do this excellent bunch of folks a service. He resolved to be satisfied with that.


	8. Chapter 8

_Six weeks later  
  
_

'Second post, sir.' SA2 Cherry set down a small pile of envelopes onto the desk. 'Anything to go out, sir?'

Lethbridge-Stewart shook his head. 'Not today. Thank you.'

The bearded naval rating clicked his heels together and marched out with his usual precision, managing as ever to close the door behind him without seeming the least awkward about it. His departure permitted Lethbridge-Stewart to begin the post-lunch ritual of opening his mail. It had always struck him as amusing to receive post when Dolerite was supposed to be a secret base. Still, that same classification meant that only official post found its way to his desk and only important official post at that.

For the most part, the day's offerings were not out of the ordinary. Responses to requests for replacement troops, regular reports from his two battalion commanders, et cetera. Then he came to a plain manila envelope with a US return address. That in itself was unusual because there were only a handful of people on that side of the Atlantic who would be aware of his mailing address and fewer who'd have any cause to correspond with him through this medium. 

There was no name included in the return address, which otherwise gave him little clue what was inside the envelope. The address itself was an unremarkably-named street located in Yonkers, New York. His first attempt to open the envelope offered his first hint that whatever was inside had to be of some importance, for the envelope flap was sealed with gummed tape. He resorted to his paper knife and shortly had the envelope open. 

'Ah.' He slid out a packet of stapled papers, topmost of which was a typed letter with a US Army letterhead. Not just any US Army letterhead, either; the emblem on the top left corner was the same as that he'd last seen worn on Major Howland's left shoulder. Lethbridge-Stewart set the packet down, the cover letter unread, and for a moment contemplated not reading any of it. He still felt somewhat aggrieved by the attempt at espionage, even though the major had not only professed to have done no espionage but tipped Lethbridge-Stewart the wink about the whole business. Part of him also, perhaps unfairly, laid blame at the major's feet. Ultimately, he had precious little interest in knowing what anyone from Howland's regiment had to say.

Whatever his personal feelings, however, this packet likely contained something of substance. He sighed. Professional correspondence shouldn't be ignored and he knew it. To his surprise, he realised the letter was not from Major Howland but Lieutenant Adrienne Kramer. That put a wholly different shade onto the possible contents of the packet. Why was she using 514th stationery, however? He had the answer to that only a few lines in; she informed him that she had met with the major at Camp Drum after hearing about his plight.

'I'll be damned.' The utterance couldn't be helped. Lethbridge-Stewart sat back in his chair and gazed at his closed office door. According to Kramer, the senior officer Howland had refused to name was Colonel Castillo, an officer assigned to the US Defence Intelligence Agency.  
  
Evidently Castillo had learned enough about Lethbridge-Stewart's credentials in the aftermath of what the Americans called the “New York Incident” that he considered it worthwhile to open an investigation. An unsanctioned one, if he was interpreting Kramer's careful wording correctly. Castillo had seen the possibility of getting some inside information about the Fifth by trying to force Major Howland into spying on him and his people. Kramer described the fallout of that attempt, perhaps deliberately making mention of the fact that Howland himself had come out of the whole debacle comparatively unscathed. 

It turned out that Castillo's attempt to force the end of Howland's career because of the major's refusal to play along had backfired fairly spectacularly, though Kramer was sparing with those details. Such things would be for Howland himself to describe in the letter which had been sent separately. Kramer had done some digging and informed him that the enclosed packet summarised the varied other operations Castillo was either directly behind or involved with, which had been rapidly wound up when the colonel's dirty dealing was exposed.

The reason for her sending this packet, she explained, was to provide Lethbridge-Stewart with the fullest possible disclosure of events. There was a possibility too that one of the operations described, or some aspect of one, or more, might impact the Fifth. Kramer could not be sure, since naturally she did not know what exactly the Fifth was involved with herself. She closed by adding that dissemination of the packet's contents was to be strictly limited to only personnel of the correct security clearance. In other words, to Lethbridge-Stewart himself, Lieutenant-colonel Douglas now he was back from leave, and at a stretch, Lieutenant Smart in his capacity as intelligence officer.

He set the letter down and sighed. It was a relief to know who'd been behind Major Howland's being sent to Dolerite, and also that the major had escaped material consequence for refusing to carry out his orders. He slid the packet back into the envelope, letter topmost, then unlocked the bottom right drawer of his desk. Only the most important articles were kept in that drawer. Lethbridge-Stewart tucked the envelope beside the barely-touched bottle of Bell's and closed and locked the drawer. He had things to do with his afternoon, so he wasn't at liberty to immediately begin reading anything in the packet. But he _could_ begin drafting a reply letter, or perhaps two. It was vital to let Major Howland know there were no hard feelings and extend an invitation for another visit – a _proper_ visit, whenever the major chose.

It was the least he could do.

~

As far as jobs went, this one was not quite the worst he'd ever hand. Nearly but not the worst. John Wilson wheeled the tea trolley past the door which kept The Spitting Pigeon safely contained and ignored the high-pitched demands for a sandwich coming from within. None of the staff dealt with The Spitting Pigeon – or Mary Ford, as she was known to the State Hospital's doctors. Not if they could avoid it. Wilson similarly ignored the next door, which belonged to the eternally slovenly Harry Cooper. Having to discard his uniform and take a shower after making this round, because of Cooper's refusal to bathe unless the staff sedated him and did the job for him, didn't appeal to Wilson.

He did however stop outside the third door along. 'Teatime, chum,' he said, unlocking the door. This patient was as harmless as anyone could get in this place. 'What's your fancy, eh? We got cheese or bacon today.'

'Bacon, if you please.' The patient, known generally as Dracula but officially named Patrick Beaton, smiled at Wilson. 'I wonder, my dear fellow, if I could also trouble you for a magnifying glass?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all a bit rough but I wanted to leave myself plenty of sea room for future stories. Which are in the works, I may add. There will be more to come...


End file.
